LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


MACAIRE 


MACAIRE 


A  MELODRAMATIC  FARCE 


BY 

RQBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

AND 

WILLIAM   ERNEST   HENLEY 


CHICAGO 
STONE  AND    KIMBALL 

MDCCCXCV 


COPYRIGHT,  1895 
BY  STONE  AND  KIMBALL 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 

ROBERT  MACAIRE. 

BERTRAND. 

DUMONT,  Landlord  of  the  Auberge  des  Adrets. 

CHARLES,  a  Gendarme,  Dumont's  supposed  son. 

GORIOT. 

THE  MARQUIS,  Charles's  father. 

THE  BRIGADIER  of  Gendarmerie. 

THE  CURATE. 

A  WAITER. 

ERNESTINE,  Goriot's  daughter. 

ALINE. 

MAIDS,  PEASANTS  (Male  and  Female),  GENDARMES. 


The  Scene  is  laid  in  the  Courtyard  of  the  Auberge  des  Adrets, 
on  the  frontier  of  France  and  Savoy.  The  time,  1820.  The  Action 
occupies  an  interval  of  from  twelve  to  fourteen  hours:  from  four  in 
the  afternoon  till  about  five  in  the  morning. 


NOTE.  —  The  time  between  the  Acts  should  be  as  brief  as  pos- 
sible, and  the  piece  played,  where  it  is  merely  comic,  in  a  vein  of 
patter. 


THE    FIRST   ACT. 


MACAIRE. 


THE   FIRST   ACT. 

The  Stage  represents  the  Courtyard  of  the  Auberge  des 
Adrets.  It  is  surrounded  with  the  buildings  of  the 
inn,  with  a  gallery  on  the  first  story,  approached  C, 
by  a  straight  flight  of  stairs.  L.  C,  the  entrance  door- 
way. A  little  in  front  of  this,  a  small  grated  office, 
containing  a  business  table,  brass-bound  cabinet,  and 
portable  cash-box.  In  front,  R.  and  L.,  tables  and 
benches :  one,  L.,  partially  laid  for  a  considerable 
party. 

SCENE  I. 

ALINE  and  MAIDS;  to  whom  FIDDLERS;  after- 
wards DUMONT  and  CHARLES.  As  the  cur- 
tain rises,  the  sound  of  the  violin  is  heard 
approaching.  ALINE  and  the  inn  servants, 
who  are  discovered  laying  the  table,  dance  up 
to  door  L.  C.,  to  meet  the  FIDDLERS,  who  enter 

3 


4  MACAIRE. 

likewise  dancing  to  their  own  music.  AIR  : 
11  Haste  to  the  Wedding"  The  FIDDLERS 
exeunt  playing  into  house,  R.  U.  E.  ALINE  and 
MAIDS  dance  back  to  table,  which  they  proceed 
to  arrange. 

ALINE. 

Well,  give  me  fiddles :  fiddles  and  a  wed- 
ding feast.  It  tickles  your  heart  till  your 
heels  make  a  runaway  match  of  it.  I  don't 
mind  extra  work,  I  don't,  so  long  as  there's 
fun  about  it.  Hand  me  up  that  pile  of 
plates.  The  quinces  there,  before  the 
bride.  Stick  a  pink  in  the  Notary's  glass  : 
that's  the  girl  he's  courting. 

DUMONT. 

(Entering  with  CHARLES.)  Good  girls, 
good  girls  !  Charles,  in  ten  minutes  from 
now  what  happy  faces  will  smile  around 
that  board ! 

CHARLES. 

Sir,  my  good  fortune  is  complete ;  and 
most  of  all  in  this,  that  my  happiness  has 
made  my  father  happy. 


MACAIRE.  5 

DUMONT. 

Your  father  ?  Ah,  well,  upon  that  point 
we  shall  have  more  to  say. 

CHARLES. 

What  more  remains  that  has  not  been 
said  already  ?  For  surely,  sir,  there  are 
few  sons  more  fortunate  in  their  father: 
and,  since  you  approve  of  this  marriage, 
may  I  not  conceive  you  to  be  in  that  sense 
fortunate  in  your  son  ? 

DUMONT. 

Dear  boy,  there  is  always  a  variety  of 
considerations.  But  the  moment  is  ill 
chosen  for  dispute  ;  to-night,  at  least,  let 
our  felicity  be  unalloyed.  (Looking  off, 
L.  C.)  Our  guests  arrive :  here  is  our 
good  Curate,  and  here  our  cheerful  Notary. 

CHARLES. 
His  old  infirmity,  I  fear. 

DUMONT. 
But,  Charles  —  dear  boy  !  —  at  your  wed- 


6  MACAIRE. 

ding  feast !     I  should  have   taken   it   un- 
neighbourly  had  he  come  strictly  sober. 

SCENE  II. 

To  these,  by  the  door,  L.  C.,  the  CURATE  and  the 
NOTARY,  arm  in  arm,  the  latter  owl-like  and 
titubant. 

CURATE. 

Peace  be  on  this  house ! 

NOTARY. 

(Singing.)  "Prove  an  excuse  for  the 
glass." 

DUMONT. 

Welcome,  excellent  neighbours !  The 
Church  and  the  Law. 

CURATE. 

And  you,  Charles,  let  me  hope  your  feel- 
ings are  in  solemn  congruence  with  this 
momentous  step. 

NOTARY. 

(Digging  CHARLES  in  the  ribs.)  Married  ? 
Lovely  bride  ?  Prove  an  excuse  ! 


MACAIRE.  7 

DUMONT. 

(To  CURATE.)  I  fear  our  friend?  per- 
haps ?  as  usual  ?  eh  ? 

CURATE. 
Possibly  :  I  had  not  yet  observed  it. 

* 

DUMONT. 

Well,  well,  his  heart  is  good. 

CURATE. 
He  doubtless  meant  it  kindly. 

NOTARY. 

Where's  Aline  ? 

ALINE. 

Coming,  sir!     (NOTARY  makes  for  her.) 

CURATE. 

(Capturing  him.)  You  will  infallibly  ex- 
pose yourself  to  misconstruction.  (To 
CHARLES.)  Where  is  your  commanding 
officer  ? 

CHARLES. 

Why,  sir,  we  have  quite  an  alert.     In- 


8  MACAIRE. 

formation  has  been  received  from  Lyons 
that  the  notorious  malefactor,  Robert  Ma- 
caire,  has  broken  prison,  and  the  Brigadier 
is  now  scouring  the  country  in  his  pursuit. 
I  myself  am  instructed  to  watch  the  vis- 
itors to  our  house. 

DUMONT. 

That  will  do,  Charles :  you  may  go. 
(Exit  CHARLES.)  You  have  considered  the 
case  I  laid  before  you  ? 

NOTARY, 

Considered  a  case  ? 

DUMONT. 

Yes,  yes.  Charles,  you  know,  Charles. 
Can  he  marry  ?  under  these  untoward  and 
peculiar  circumstances,  can  he  marry  ? 

NOTARY. 

Now  lemme  tell  you  :  marriage  is  a  con- 
tract to  which  there  are  two  contracting 
parties.  That  being  clear,  I  am  prepared 
to  argue  it  categorically  that  your  son 


MACAIRE.  9 

Charles — who,  it  appears,  is  not  your  son 
Charles  —  I  am  prepared  to  argue  that  one 
party  to  a  contract  being  null  and  void, 
the  other  party  to  a  contract  cannot  by 
law  oblige  the  first  party  to  constract  or 
bind  himself  to  any  contract,  except  the 
other  party  be  able  to  see  his  way  clearly 
to  constract  himself  with  him.  I  dunno  if 
I  make  myself  clear  ? 

DUMONT. 
No. 

NOTARY. 

Now,  lemme  tell  you :  by  applying  jus- 
tice of  peace  might  possibly  afford  relief. 

DUMONT. 
But  how  ? 

NOTARY. 

Ay,  there's  the  rub. 

DUMONT. 

But  what  am  I  to  do  ?     He's  not  my 
son,  I  tell  you  :  Charles  is  not  my  son. 


io  MACAIRE. 

NOTARY. 

I  know. 

DUMONT. 

Perhaps  a  glass  of  wine  would  clear  him  ? 

NOTARY. 

That's  what  I  want.  (They  go  out,  L. 
17.  E.) 

ALINE. 

And  now,  if  you've  done  deranging  my 
table,  to  the  cellar  for  the  wine,  the  whole 
pack  of  you.  (Manet  sola,  considering 
table.)  There :  it's  like  a  garden.  If  I 
had  as  sweet  a  table  for  my  wedding,  I 
would  marry  the  Notary. 

SCENE  III. 

The  Stage  remains  vacant.  Enter,  by  door,  L. 
C.,  MACAIRE,  followed  by  BERTRAND  with 
bundle  ;  in  the  traditional  costume. 

MACAIRE. 

Good !     No  police. 


MACAIRE.  it 

BERTRAND. 

(Looking  off,  L.  C.)     Sold  again ! 

MACAIRE. 

This  is  a  favoured  spot,  Bertrand  ;  ten 
minutes  from  the  frontier;  ten  minutes 
from  escape.  Blessings  on  that  frontier 
line  !  The  criminal  hops  across,  and  lo  ! 
the  reputable  man.  (Reading.)  "  Auberge 
des  Adrets,  by  John  Paul  Dumont."  A 
table  set  for  company ;  this  is  fate :  Bert- 
rand,  are  we  the  first  arrivals  ?  An  office ; 
a  cabinet ;  a  cash  box  —  aha  !  and  a  cash 
box,  golden  within.  A  money-box  is  like 
a  Quaker  beauty :  demure  without,  but 
what  a  figure  of  a  woman !  Outside  gal- 
lery :  an  architectural  feature  I  approve ; 
I  count  it  a  convenience  both  for  love  and 
war:  the  troubadour  —  twang-twang;  the 
craftsman  —  (Makes  as  if  turning  key.) 
The  kitchen  window  :  humming  with  cook- 
ery ;  truffles  before  Jove !  I  was  born  for 
truffles.  Cock  your  hat :  meat,  wine,  rest, 
and  occupation ;  men  to  gull,  women  to 


12  MACAIRE. 

fool,  and  still  the  door  open,  the  great  un- 
bolted door  of  the  frontier ! 

BERTRAND. 

Macaire,  I'm  hungry. 

MACAIRE. 

Bertrand,  excuse  me,  you  are  a  sensu- 
alist. I  should  have  left  you  in  the  stone- 
yard  at  Lyons,  and  written  no  passport  but 
my  own.  Your  soul  is  incorporate  with 
your  stomach.  Am  I  not  hungry,  too  ? 
My  body,  thanks  to  immortal  Jupiter,  is 
but  the  boy  that  holds  the  kite-string ;  my 
aspirations  and  designs  swim  like  the  kite 
sky-high,  and  overlook  an  empire. 

BERTRAND. 

If  I  could  get  a  full  meal  and  a  pound 
in  my  pocket  I  would  hold  my  tongue. 

MACAIRE. 

Dreams,  dreams  !  We  are  what  we  are ; 
and  what  are  we  ?  Who  are  you  ?  who 
cares  ?  Who  am  I  ?  myself.  What  do 


MACAIRE.  13 

we  come  from  ?  an  accident.  What's  a 
mother  ?  an  old  woman.  A  father  ?  the 
gentleman  who  beats  her.  What  is  crime  ? 
discovery.  Virtue  ?  opportunity.  Politics  ? 
a  pretext.  Affection  ?  an  affectation.  Mo- 
rality ?  an  affair  of  latitude.  Punishment  ? 
this  side  of  the  frontier.  Reward  ?  the 
other.  Property  ?  plunder.  Business  ? 
other  people's  money  —  not  mine,  by  God  ! 
and  the  end  of  life  to  live  till  we  are 
hanged. 

BERTRAND. 

Macaire,  I  came  into  this  place  with  my 
tail  between  my  legs  already,  and  hungry 
besides ;  and  then  you  get  to  flourishing, 
and  it  depresses  me  worse  than  the  chap- 
lain in  the  jail. 

MACAIRE. 

What  is  a  chaplain  ?  A  man  they  pay 
to  say  what  you  don't  want  to  hear. 

BERTRAND. 

And  who  are  you  after  all  ?  and  what 
right  have  you  to  talk  like  that  ?  By  what 


14  MACAIRE. 

I  can  hear,  you've  been  the  best  part  of 
your  life  in  quod  ;  and  as  for  me,  since  I've 
followed  you,  what  sort  of  luck  have  I 
had  ?  Sold  again  !  A  boose,  a  blue  fright, 
and  two  years'  hard  labour,  and  the  police 
hot  foot  after  us  even  now. 

MACAIRE. 
What  is  life  ?     A  boose  and  the  police. 

BERTRAND. 

Of  course,  I  know  you're  clever;  I  ad- 
mire you  down  to  the  ground,  and  I'll 
starve  without  you.  But  I  can't  stand  it, 
and  I'm  off.  Good-bye  :  good  luck  to  you, 
old  man  ;  and  if  you  want  the  bundle 

MACAIRE. 

I  am  a  gentleman  of  a  mild  disposition, 
and,  I  thank  my  maker,  elegant  manners ; 
but  rather  than  be  betrayed  by  such  a 
thing  as  you  are,  with  the  courage  of  a 
hare,  and  the  manners,  by  the  Lord  Harry, 

of    a    jumping-jack (He  shows   his 

knife) 


MACAIRE.  15 

BERTRAND. 

Put  it  up  put  it  up :  I'll  do  what  you 
want. 

MACAIRE. 

What  is  obedience  ?  Fear.  So  march 
straight,  or  look  for  mischief.  It's  not 
fyon  ton,  I  know,  and  far  from  friendly. 
But  what  is  friendship  ?  convenience.  But 
we  lose  time  in  this  amiable  dalliance. 
Come,  now,  an  effort  of  deportment :  the 
head  thrown  back,  a  jaunty  carriage  of  the 
leg;  crook  gracefully  the  elbow.  Thus. 
'Tis  better.  (Calling.}  House,  house  here ! 

BERTRAND. 

Are    you   mad?    We   haven't   a   brass 

farthing. 

MACAIRE. 

Now  !  —  But  before  we  leave ! 

SCENE  IV. 
To  these,  DUMONT. 

DUMONT. 

Gentlemen ;  what  can  a  plain  man  do 
for  your  service  ? 


16  MACAIRE. 

MACAIRE. 

My  good  man,  in  a  roadside  inn  one  can- 
not look  for  the  impossible.  Give  one 
what  small  wine  and  what  country  fare  you 
can  produce. 

DUMONT. 

Gentlemen,  you  come  here  upon  a  most 
auspicious  day,  a  red-letter  day  for  me  and 
my  poor  house,  when  all  are  welcome. 
Suffer  me,  with  all  delicacy,  to  inquire  if 
you  are  not  in  somewhat  narrow  circum- 
stances ? 

MACAIRE. 

My  good  creature,  you  are  strangely  in 
error ;  one  is  rolling  in  gold. 

BERTRAND. 

And  very  hungry. 

DUMONT. 

Dear  me ;  and  on  this  happy  occasion  I 
had  registered  a  vow  that  every  poor  trav- 
eller should  have  his  keep  for  nothing,  and 
a  pound  in  his  pocket  to  help  him  on  his 
journey. 


MACAIRE. 


Aside. 


MACAIRE. 
A  pound  in  his  pocket? 

BERTRAND. 

Keep  for  nothing  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Bitten ! 

BERTRAND. 

Sold  again ! 

DUMONT. 

I  will  send  you  what  we  have  :  poor  fare, 
perhaps,  for  gentlemen  like  you. 

SCENE  V. 

MACAIRE,  BERTRAND  ;  afterwards  CHARLES,  who 
appears  on  the  gallery  and  comes  down. 

BERTRAND. 

I  told  you  so.     Why  will  you  fly  so  high  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Bertrand,  don't  crush   me.     A  pound  : 
c 


i8  MACAIRE. 

a  fortune  !  With  a  pound  to  start  upon  — 
two  pounds,  for  I'd  have  borrowed  yours 
—  three  months  from  now  I  might  have 
been  driving  in  my  barouche,  and  you 
behind  it,  Bertrand,  in  a  tasteful  livery. 

BERTRAND. 

(Seeing  CHARLES.)     Lord,  a  policeman  ! 
MACAIRE. 

Steady !  What  is  a  policeman  ?  Jus- 
tice's blind  eye.  (To  CHARLES.)  I  think, 
sir,  you  are  in  the  force  ? 

CHARLES. 
I  am,  sir,  and  it  was  in  that  character 

MACAIRE. 
Ah,  sir,  a  fine  service ! 

CHARLES. 

It  is,  sir,  and  if  your  papers 

MACAIRE. 

You  become  your  uniform.  Have  you  a 
mother  ?  Ah,  well,  well ! 


MACAIRE.  19 

CHARLES. 


My  duty,  sir  • 


MACAIRE. 

They  tell  me  one  Macaire  —  is  not  that 
his  name,  Bertrand  ?  —  has  broken  jail  at 
Lyons  ? 

CHARLES. 

He  has,  sir,  and  it  is  precisely  for  that 

reason 

MACAIRE. 

Well,  good-bye.  (Shaking  CHARLES  by 
the  hand,  and  leading  him  towards  the  door, 
L.  U.  £.)  Sweet  spot,  sweet  spot.  The 
scenery  is  .  .  (kisses  his  finger  tips.  Exit 
CHARLES).  And  now,  what  is  a  policeman? 

BERTRAND. 

A  bobby. 

SCENE  VI. 

MACAIRE,  BERTRAND  ;  to  whom  ALINE  with  tray  ; 
and  afterwards  MAIDS. 


20  MACAIRE. 

ALINE. 

(Entering  with  tray,  and  proceeding  to 
lay  table,  L.)  My  men,  you  are  in  better 
luck  than  usual.  It  isn't  every  day  you  go 
shares  in  a  wedding  feast. 

MACAIRE. 
A  wedding  ?     Ah,  and  you're  the  bride  ? 

ALINE. 

What  makes  you  fancy  that  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Heavens,  am  I  blind  ? 

ALINE. 
Well,  then,  I  wish  I  was. 

MACAIRE. 

I  take  you  at  the  word  :  have  me. 

ALINE. 
You  will  never  be  hanged  for  modesty. 

MACAIRE. 

Modesty  is  for  the  poor :   when  one  is 


MACAIRE.  21 

rich  and  nobly  born,  'tis  but  a  clog.    I  love 
you.     What  is  your  name  ? 

ALINE. 

Guess  again,  and  you'll  guess  wrong. 
(Enter  the  other  servants  with  wine  bas- 
kets?) Here,  set  the  wine  down.  No,  that 
is  the  old  Burgundy  for  the  wedding  party. 
These  gentlemen  must  put  up  with  a  dif- 
ferent bin.  (Setting  wine  before  MACAIRE 
and  BERTRAND,  who  are  at  table,  L.) 

MACAIRE. 

(Drinking?)  Vinegar,  by  the  supreme 
Jove! 

BERTRAND. 

Sold  again ! 

MACAIRE. 

Now,  Bertrand,  mark  me.  (Before  the 
servants  he  exchanges  the  bottle  for  the  one 
in  front  of  DUMONT'S  place  at  the  head  of 
the  other  table?)  Was  it  well  done  ? 

BERTRAND. 

Immense. 


22  MACAIRE. 

MACAIRE. 

(Emptying  his  glass  into  BERTRAND'S.) 
There,  Bertrand,  you  may  finish  that.  Ha ! 
music  ? 

SCENE  VII. 

To  these,  from  the  inn,  L.  U.  E.,  DUMONT, 
CHARLES,  the  CURATE,  the  NOTARY  jigging: 
from  the  inn,  R.  U.  E.,  FIDDLERS  playing  and 
dancing;  and  through  door  L.  C.,  GORIOT, 
ERNESTINE,  PEASANTS,  dancing  likewise.  AIR  : 
"Haste  to  the  Wedding.'"  As  the  parties 
meet,  the  music  ceases. 

DUMONT. 

Welcome,  neighbours !  welcome,  friends ! 
Ernestine,  here  is  my  Charles,  no  longer 
mine.  A  thousand  welcomes.  O  the  gay 
day!  O  the  auspicious  wedding!  (CHARLES, 
ERNESTINE,  DUMONT,  GORIOT,  CURATE, 
and  NOTARY  sit  to  the  wedding  feast ; 
PEASANTS,  FIDDLERS,  and  MAIDS,  grouped 
at  back,  drinking  from  the  barrel?)  O,  I 
must  have  all  happy  around  me. 


MACAIRE.  23 

GORIOT. 

Then  help  the  soup. 

DUMONT. 

Give  me  leave.  I  must  have  all  happy. 
Shall  these  poor  gentlemen  upon  a  day 
like  this  drink  ordinary  wine  ?  Not  so  :  I 
shall  drink  it.  (To  MACAIRE,  who  is  just 
about  to  fill  his  glass.)  Don't  touch  it, 
sir !  Aline,  give  me  that  gentleman's  bot- 
tle and  take  him  mine  :  with  old  Dumont's 

compliments. 

MACAIRE. 
What  ? 

BERTRAND. 

Change  the  bottle  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Bitten ! 

Aside. 

BERTRAND. 

Sold  again. 

DUMONT. 

Yes,  all  shall  be  happy. 

GORIOT. 
I  tell  'ee,  help  the  soup ! 


24  MACAIRE. 

DUMONT. 

(Begins  to  help  soup.  Then,  dropping 
ladle?)  One  word :  a  matter  of  detail : 
Charles  is  not  my  son.  (All  exclaim?)  O 
no,  he  is  not  my  son.  Perhaps,  I  should 
have  mentioned  it  before. 

CHARLES. 
I  am  not  your  son,  sir  ? 

DUMONT. 

O  no,  far  from  it. 

GORIOT. 

Then  who  the  devil's  son  be  he  ? 
DUMONT. 

O,  I  don't  know.  It's  an  odd  tale,  a 
romantic  tale :  it  may  amuse  you.  It  was 
twenty  years  ago,  when  I  kept  the  Golden 
Head  at  Lyons  :  Charles  was  left  upon  my 
doorstep  in  a  covered  basket,  with  suffi- 
cient money  to  support  the  child  till  he 
should  come  of  age.  There  was  no  mark 
upon  the  linen,  nor  any  clue  but  one : 
an  unsigned  letter  from  the  father  of  the 
child,  which  he  strictly  charged  me  to  pre- 


MACAIRE.  25 

serve.  It  was  to  prove  his  identity :  he, 
of  course,  would  know  its  contents,  and  he 
only ;  so  I  keep  it  safe  in  the  third  com- 
partment of  my  cash-box,  with  the  ten 
thousand  francs  I've  saved  for  his  dowry. 
Here  is  the  key;  it's  a  patent  key.  To- 
day the  poor  boy  is  twenty-one,  to-morrow 
to  be  married.  I  did  perhaps  hope  the 
father  would  appear :  there  was  a  Marquis 
coming ;  he  wrote  me  for  a  room  ;  I  gave 
him  the  best,  Number  Thirteen,  which 
you  have  all  heard  of :  I  did  hope  it  might 
be  he,  for  a  Marquis,  you  know,  is  always 
genteel.  But  no,  you  see.  As  for  me,  I 
take  you  all  to  witness  I'm  as  innocent  of 
him  as  the  babe  unborn. 

MACAIRE. 

Ahem !  I  think  you  said  the  linen  bore 
an  M  ? 

DUMONT. 

Pardon  me :  the  markings  were  cut  off. 

MACAIRE. 

True.     The  basket  white,  I  think  ? 


26  MACAIRE. 

DUMONT. 

Brown,  brown. 

MACAIRE. 

Ah  !  brown  —  a  whitey-brown. 

GORIOT. 

I  tell  'ee  what,  Dumont,  this  is  all  very 
well ;  but  in  that  case,  I'll  be  danged  if  he 
gets  my  daater.  (General  consternation?) 

DUMONT. 
O  Goriot,  let's  have  happy  faces  ! 

GORIOT. 

Happy  faces  be  danged !  I  want  to 
marry  my  daater;  I  want  your  son.  But 
who  be  this  ?  I  don't  know,  and  you  don't 
know,  and  he  don't  know.  He  may  be 
anybody ;  by  Jarge,  he  may  be  nobody ! 
(Exclamations?) 

CURATE. 
The  situation  is  crepuscular. 

ERNESTINE. 

Father,  and  Mr.  Dumont  (and  you  too, 
Charles),  I  wish  to  say  one  word.  You 


MACAIRE. 


27 


gave  us  leave  to  fall  in  love;  we  fell  in 
love ;  and  as  for  me,  my  father,  I  will 
either  marry  Charles,  or  die  a  maid. 

CHARLES. 

And  you,  sir,  would  you  rob  me  in  one 
day  of  both  a  father  and  a  wife  ? 

DUMONT. 
( Weeping.)     Happy  faces,  happy  faces  ! 

GORIOT. 

I  know  nothing  about  robbery ;  but  she 
cannot  marry  without  my  consent,  and  that 
she  cannot  get. 

DUMONT. 
O  dear,  O  dear ! 

ALINE. 

What,  spoil  the  wedding  ? 

ERNESTINE. 

O  father! 

CHARLES. 

Sir,  sir,  you  would  not 


Together. 


28  MACAIRE. 

GORIOT 

(Exasperated)      I    wun't,    and    what's 
more  I  shan't. 

NOTARY. 
I  donno  if  I  make  myself  clear  ? 

DUMONT. 

Goriot,  do  let's  have  happy  faces  ! 

GORIOT. 
Fudge !     Fudge !  !     Fudge ! !  ! 

CURATE. 

Possibly  on  application  to  this  conscien- 
tious jurist,  light  might  be  obtained. 

ALL. 
The  Notary ;  yes,  yes ;  the  Notary  ! 

DUMONT. 

Now,  how  about  this  marriage  ? 

NOTARY. 

Marriage  is  a  contract,  to  which  there 
are  two  contracting  parties,  John  Doe  and 


MACAIRE.  29 

Richard  Roe.     I  donno  if  I  make  myself 
clear  ? 

ALINE. 

Poor  lamb ! 

CURATE. 

*  Silence,    my  friend ;    you    will    expose 
yourself  to  misconstruction. 

MACAIRE. 

( Taking  the  stage)  As  an  entire  stranger 
in  this  painful  scene,  you  will  permit  a  gen- 
tleman and  a  traveller  to  interject  one  word  ? 
There  sits  the  young  man,  full,  I  am  sure,  of 
pleasing  qualities  ;  here  the  young  maiden, 
by  her  own  confession  bashfully  consenting 
to  the  match ;  there  sits  that  dear  old  gen- 
tleman ;  a  lover  of  bright  faces  like  myself, 
his  own  now  dimmed  with  sorrow,  and 
here  —  (may  I  be  allowed  to  add  ?)  —  here 
sits  this  noble  Roman,  a  father  like  myself, 
and  like  myself  the  slave  of  duty.  Last 
you  have  me — Baron  Henri-Frederic  de 
Latour  de  Main  de  la  Tonnerre  de  Brest, 
the  man  of  the  world  and  the  man  of  deli- 


30  MACAIRE. 

cacy.  I  find  you  all  —  permit  me  the  ex- 
pression —  gravelled.  A  marriage  and  an 
obstacle.  Now,  what  is  marriage  ?  The 
union  of  two  souls,  and,  what  is  possibly 
more  romantic,  the  fusion  of  two  dowries. 
What  is  an  obstacle  ?  the  devil.  And  this 
obstacle  ?  to  me,  as  a  man  of  family,  the 
obstacle  seems  grave  ;  but  to  me,  as  a  man 
and  a  brother,  what  is  it  but  a  word.  O 
my  friend  (to  GORIOT),  you  whom  I  single 
out  as  the  victim  of  the  same  noble  failing 
with  myself — of  pride  of  birth,  of  pride 
of  honesty — O  my  friend,  reflect.  Go 
now  apart  with  your  dishevelled  daughter, 
your  tearful  son-in-law,  and  let  their  plaints 
constrain  you.  Believe  me,  when  you  come 
to  die,  you  will  recall  with  pride  this  amia- 
ble weakness. 

GORIOT. 

I  shan't,  and  what's  more  I  wun't. 
(CHARLES  and  ERNESTINE  lead  him  up 
stage,  protesting.  A II  rise,  except  NOTARY.) 

DUMONT. 
(Front  R.y  shaking  /lands  with  MACAIRE.) 


MACAIRE.  31 

Sir,  you  have  a  noble  nature.  (MACAIRE 
picks  his  pocket?)  Dear  me,  dear  me,  and 
you  are  rich. 

MACAIRE. 

I  own,  sir,  I  deceived  you  :  I  feared  some 
wounding  offer,  and  my  pride  replied.  But 
to  be  quite  frank  with  you,  you  behold  me 
here,  the  Baron  Henri- Frederic  de  Latour 
de  Main  de  la  Tonnerre  de  Brest,  and 
between  my  simple  manhood  and  the  in- 
finite these  rags  are  all. 

DUMONT. 

Dear  me,  and  with  this  noble  pride,  my 
gratitude  is  useless.  For  I,  too,  have  deli- 
cacy :  I  understand  you  could  not  stoop  to 
take  a  gift. 

MACAIRE. 
A  gift  ?  a  small  one  ?  never  ! 

DUMONT. 

And  I  will  never  wound  you  by  the 
offer. 


MACAIRE. 


MACAIRE. 

Bitten. 

BERTRAND. 

Sold  again. . 


Aside. 


GORIOT. 

(Taking  the  stage.)     But,  look'ee  here, 
he  can't  marry. 

MACAIRE. 
Hey? 

DUMONT. 

Ah! 


ALINE. 

Heyday ! 

CURATE. 

Wherefore  ? 

ERNESTINE. 

Oh! 

CHARLES. 
Ah! 


Together. 


MACAIRE.  33 

GORIOT. 

Not  without  his  veyther's  consent !  And 
he  hasn't  got  it ;  and  what's  more,  he  can't 
get  it ;  and  what's  more,  he  hasn't  got  a 
veyther  to  get  it  from.  It's  the  law  of 
France. 

ALINE. 

Then  the  law  of  France  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  itself. 

ERNESTINE. 

O,  couldn't  we  ask  the  Notary  again  ? 

CURATE. 
Indubitably  you  may  ask  him. 

MACAIRE. 

Can't  they  marry  ? 

DUMONT. 

Together. 

Can't  he  marry  ? 

ALINE. 

Can't  she  marry  ? 
D 


34 


MACAIRE. 


ERNESTINE. 

Can't  we  marry  ? 

CHARLES. 

Together. 
Can't  I  marry  ? 

GORIOT. 

Bain't  I  right  ? 

NOTARY. 

Constracting  parties. 

CURATE. 

Possibly  to-morrow  at  an  early  hour  he 
may  be  more  perspicuous. 

GORIOT. 
Ay,  before  he've  time  to  get  at  it. 

NOTARY. 

Unoffending  jurisconsult  overtaken  by 
sorrow.  Possibly  by  applying  justice  of 
peace  might  afford  relief. 


MACAIRE 


35 


MACAIRE. 

Bravo ! 

DUMONT. 

Excellent ! 

CHARLES. 


Together. 


Let's  go  at  once  ! 

ALINE. 

The  very  thing ! 

ERNESTINE. 

Yes,  this  minute ! 

GORIOT. 

I'll  go.  I  don't  mind  getting  advice, 
but  I  wun't  take  it. 

MACAIRE. 

My  friends,  one  word  :  I  perceive  by 
your  downcast  looks  that  you  have  not 
recognised  the  true  nature  of  your  respon- 
sibility as  citizens  of  time.  What  is  care  ? 
impiety.  Joy?  the  whole  duty  of  man. 


36  MACAIRE. 

Here  is  an  opportunity  of  duty  it  were 
sinful  to  forego.  With  a  word,  I  could 
lighten  your  hearts ;  but  I  prefer  to  quicken 
your  heels,  and  send  you  forth  on  your  in- 
genuous errand  with  happy  faces  and  smil- 
ing thoughts,  the  physicians  of  your  own 
recovery.  Fiddlers,  to  your  catgut.  Up, 
Bertrand,  and  show  them  how  one  foots  it 
in  society ;  forward,  girls,  and  choose  me 
every  one  the  lad  she  loves ;  Dumont, 
benign  old  man,  lead  forth  our  blushing 
curate ;  and  you,  O  bride,  embrace  the 
uniform  of  your  beloved,  and  help  us  dance 
in  your  wedding-day.  (Dance,  in  the  course 
of  which  MACAIRE  picks  DUMONT'S  pocket 
of  his  keys,  selects  the  key  of  the  cash-box, 
and  returns  the  others  to  his  pocket.  In 
the  end,  all  dance  out;  the  wedding-party, 
headed  by  FIDDLERS,  L.  C. ;  the  MAIDS  and 
ALINE  into  the  inn,  R.  U.  E.  Manent  BER- 
TRAND and  MACAIRE.) 


MACAIRE.  37 

SCENE  VIII. 

MACAIRE,  BERTRAND,  who  instantly  takes  a  bottle 
from  the  wedding-table,  and  sits  with  it,  L. 

MACAIRE. 

*  Bertrand,  there's  a  devil  of  a  want  of  a 
father  here. 

BERTRAND. 

Ay,  if  we  only  knew  where  to  find  him. 

MACAIRE. 

Bertrand,  look  at  me  :  I  am  Macaire ;  I 
am  that  father. 

BERTRAND. 

You,  Macaire  ?  you  a  father  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Not  yet :  but  in  five  minutes.  I  am 
capable  of  any  thing.  (Prodiicing  key.) 
What  think  you  of  this  ? 

BERTRAND. 

That  ?     Is  it  a  key  ? 


38  MACAIRE. 

MACAIRE. 

Ay,  boy,  and  what  besides  ?  my  diploma 
of  respectability,  my  patent  of  fatherhood. 
I  prigged  it  —  in  the  ardour  of  the  dance  I 
prigged  it ;  I  change  it  beyond  recognition, 
thus  (twists  the  handle  of  the  key) ;  and  now 
.  .  .  ?  Where  is  my  long-lost  child?  pro- 
duce my  young  policeman,  show  me  my 
gallant  boy. 

BERTRAND. 

I  don't  understand. 

MACAIRE. 

Dear  innocence,  how  should  you  ?  Your 
brains  are  in  your  fists.  Go  and  keep 
watch.  (He  goes  into  the  office  and  returns 
with  the  cash-box?)  Keep  watch,  I  say. 

BERTRAND. 

Where  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Everywhere.     (He  opens  box.) 

BERTRAND. 

Gold. 


MACAIRE.  39 

MACAIRE. 

Hands  off!  Keep  watch.  (BERTRAND 
at  back  of  stage?)  Beat  slower,  my  pater- 
nal heart !  The  third  compartment ;  let 
me  see. 

BERTRAND. 

S'st !  (MACAIRE  shuts  box.)  No ;  false 
alarm. 

MACAIRE. 

The  third  compartment.  Aye,  here  it 
is 

BERTRAND. 

S'st !     (Same  business.)     No  :  fire  away. 

MACAIRE. 

The  third  compartment ;  it  must  be  this. 

BERTRAND. 

S'st !  (MACAIRE  keeps  box  open  watch- 
ing BERTRAND.)  All  serene  :  it's  the  wind. 

MACAIRE. 

Now,  see  here  !  (He  darts  his  knife  into 
the  stage)  I  will  either  be  backed  as  a 


40  MACAIRE. 

man  should  be,  or  from  this  minute  out 
I'll  work  alone.  Do  you  understand  ?  I 
said  alone. 

BERTRAND. 

For  the  Lord's  sake,  Macaire ! 


MACAIRE. 

Ay,  here  it  is.  (Reading  letter!)  "  Pre- 
serve this  letter  secretly ;  its  terms  are 
known  only  to  you  and  me :  hence,  when 
the  time  comes,  I  shall  repeat  them,  and 
my  son  will  recognise  his  father."  Signed  : 
"  Your  Unknown  Benefactor."  (He  hums 
it  over  twice  and  replaces  it.  Then,  finger- 
ing the  gold.}  Gold  !  The  yellow  enchant- 
ress, happiness  ready-made  and  laughing 
in  my  face  !  Gold  :  what  is  gold  ?  The 
world  ;  the  term  of  ills  ;  the  empery  of  all ; 
the  multitudinous  babble  of  the  'change, 
the  sailing  from  all  ports  of  freighted  argo- 
sies ;  music,  wine,  a  palace ;  the  doors  of 
the  bright  theatre,  the  key  of  consciences, 
and  love  —  love's  whistle  !  All  this  below 
my  itching  fingers  ;  and  to  set  this  by,  turn 


MACAIRE.  41 

a  deaf  ear  upon  the  siren  present,  and  con- 
tlescend  once  more,  naked,  into  the  ring 
with  fortune  —  Macaire,  how  few  would  do 
it !  But  you,  Macaire,  you  are  compacted 
of  more  subtile  clay.  No  cheap  immediate 
pilfering ;  no  retail  trade  of  petty  larceny ; 
,but  swoop  at  the  heart  of  the  position,  and 
clutch  all ! 

BERTRAND. 

(At  his  shoulder.)     Halves ! 

MACAIRE. 

Halves  ?     (He  locks  the  box.)     Bertrand, 
I  am  a  father.     (Replaces  box  in  office) 

BERTRAND. 

(Looking  after  him)      Well,  I  —  am  — 
damned ! 

DROP. 


THE   SECOND   ACT. 


THE   SECOND  ACT. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  the  night  has  come.  A  hanging 
cluster  of  lighted  lamps  over  each  table,  R.  and  L. 
MACAIRE,  E.,  smoking  a  cigarette;  BERTRAND,  L., 
with  a  churchwarden;  each  with  bottle  and  glass. 

SCENE  I. 

MACAIRE,  BERTRAND. 
MACAIRE. 

Bertrand,  I  am  content :  a  child  might 
play  with  me.  Does  your  pipe  draw  well  ? 

BERTRAND. 

Like  a  factory  chimney.  This  is  my 
notion  of  life :  liquor,  a  chair,  a  table  to 
put  my  feet  on,  a  fine  clean  pipe,  and  no 
police. 

MACAIRE. 

Bertrand,   do  you   see   these   changing 
exhalations?  do  you  see  these  blue  rings 
45 


46  MACAIRE. 

and   spirals,  weaving  their  dance,  like   a 
round  of  fairies,  on  the  footless  air? 

BERTRAND. 

I  see  'em  right  enough. 

MACAIRE. 

Man  of  little  visions,  expound  me  these 
meteors  ?  what  do  they  signify,  O  wooden- 
head  ?  Clod,  of  what  do  they  consist  ? 

BERTRAND. 

Damned  bad  tobacco. 

MACAIRE. 

I  will  give  you  a  little  course  of  science. 
Everything,  Bertrand  (much  as  it  may  sur- 
prise you),  has  three  states :  a  vapour,  a 
liquid,  a  solid.  These  are  fortune  in  the 
vapour  :  these  are  ideas.  What  are  ideas  ? 
the  protoplasm  of  wealth.  To  your  head 
—  which,  by  the  way,  is  a  solid,  Bertrand  — 
what  are  they  but  foul  air?  To  mine,  to 
my  prehensile  and  constructive  intellects, 
see,  as  I  grasp  and  work  them,  to  what 


MACAIRE.  47 

lineaments  of  the  future  they  transform 
themselves  :  a  palace,  a  barouche,  a  pair  of 
luminous  footmen,  plate,  wine,  respect,  and 
to  be  honest ! 

BERTRAND. 

But  what's  the  sense  in  honesty  ? 

MACAIRE. 

The  sense  ?  You  see  me  :  Macaire  : 
elegant,  immoral,  invincible  in  cunning; 
well,  Bertrand,  much  as  it  may  surprise 
you,  I  am  simply  damned  by  my  dishonesty. 

BERTRAND. 

No! 

MACAIRE. 

The  honest  man,  Bertrand,  that  God's 
noblest  work.  He  carries  the  bag,  my  boy. 
Would  you  have  me  define  honesty?  the 
strategic  point  for  theft.  Bertrand,  if  I'd 
three  hundred  a  year,  I'd  be  honest  to- 
morrow. 

BERTRAND. 

Ah !     Don't  you  wish  you  may  get  it ! 


48 


MACAIRE. 

MACAIRE. 


Bertrand,  I  will  bet  you  my  head  against 
your  own  —  the  longest  odds  I  can  im- 
agine—  that  with  honesty  for  my  spring- 
board, I  leap  through  history  like  a  paper 
hoop,  and  come  out  among  posterity  heroic 
and  immortal. 


SCENE  II. 

To  these  all  the  former  characters,  less  the  NO- 
TARY. The  fiddles  are  heard  without,  playing 
dolefully.  AIR  :  "  O  dear,  what  can  the  mat- 
ter be?"  in  time  to  which  the  procession 
enters, 

MACAIRE. 

Well,  friends,  what  cheer  ? 

ALINE. 
No  wedding,  no  wedding !          Together. 

GORIOT. 

I  told  'ee  he  can't,  and   he 
can't ! 


MACAIRE. 


49 


DUMONT. 

Dear,  dear  me. 

ERNESTINE. 

They  won't  let  us  marry.         \  Together. 

CHARLES. 

No  wife,  no  father,  no  noth- 
ing. 

CURATE. 

The  facts  have  justified  the  worst  antici- 
pations of  our  absent  friend,  the  Notary. 

MACAIRE. 
I  perceive  I  must  reveal  myself. 

DUMONT. 
God  bless  me,  no ! 

MACAIRE. 

My  friends,  I  had  meant  to  preserve  a 
strict  incognito,  for  I  was  ashamed  (I  own 
it !)  of  this  poor  accoutrement ;  but  when  I 
see  a  face  that  I  can  render  happy,  say,  my 


50  MACAIRE. 

old  Dumont,  should  I  hesitate  to  make  the 
change  ?  Hear  me,  then,  and  you  (to  the 
others]  prepare  a  smiling  countenance. 
(Repeating?)  "  Preserve  this  letter  secretly ; 
its  terms  are  only  known  to  you  and  me ; 
hence  when  the  time  comes,  1  shall  repeat 
them,  and  my  son  will  recognise  his  father. 
—  Your  Unknown  Benefactor." 

DUMONT. 

The  words  !  the  letter !  Charles,  alas  !  it 
is  your  father ! 

CHARLES. 
Good  Lord  !     (General  consternation.} 

BERTRAND. 

(Aside :  smiting  his  brow?)    I  see  it  now ; 
sublime ! 

CURATE. 

A  highly  singular  eventuality. 

GORIOT. 
Him  ?   O  well,  then,  I  wun't.    (Goes  up.} 


MACAIRE.  51 

MACAIRE. 

Charles,  to  my  arms  !  (Business.}  Ernes- 
tine, your  second  father  waits  to  welcome 
you.  (Business.)  Goriot,  noble  old  man, 
I  grasp  your  hand.  (He  doesn't.)  And  you, 
Dumont,  how  shall  your  unknown  bene- 
factor thank  you  for  your  kindness  to  this 
boy  ?  (A  dead  pause)  Charles,  to  my 
arms ! 

CHARLES. 

My  father,  you  are  still  something  of  a 
stranger.  I  hope  —  er  —  in  the  course  of 
time  —  I  hope  that  may  be  somewhat 
mended.  But  I  confess  that  I  have  so 
long  regarded  Mr.  Dumont  — 

MACAIRE. 

Love  him  still,  dear  boy,  love  him  still. 
I  have  not  returned  to  be  a  burden  on 
your  heart,  nor  much,  comparatively,  on 
your  pocket.  A  place  by  the  fire,  dear 
boy,  a  crust  for  my  friend,  Bertrand.  (A 
dead  pause)  Ah,  well,  this  is  a  different 
home-coming  from  that  I  fancied  when  I 


52  MACAIRE. 

left  the  letter :  I  dreamed  to  grow  rich. 
Charles,  you  remind  me  of  your  sainted 
mother. 

CHARLES. 

I  trust,  sir,  you  do  not  think  yourself 
less  welcome  for  your  poverty. 

MACAIRE. 

Nay,  nay  —  more  welcome,  more  wel- 
come. O,  I  know  your  —  (business]  backs  ! 
Besides,  my  poverty  is  noble.  Political 
.  .  .  Dumont,  what  are  your  politics  ? 

DUMONT. 
A  plain  old  republican,  my  lord. 

MACAIRE. 

And  yours,  my  good  Goriot  ? 

GORIOT. 

I  be  a  royalist,  I  be,  and  so  be  my 
daater. 

MACAIRE. 

How  strange  is  the  coincidence !  The 
party  that  I  sought  to  found  combined  the 


MACAIRE.  53 

peculiarities  of  both :  a  patriotic  enterprise 
in  which  I  fell.  This  humble  fellow  .  .  . 
have  I  introduced  him  ?  You  behold  in 
us  the  embodiment  of  aristocracy  and  de- 
mocracy. Bertrand,  shake  hands  with  my 
family.  (BERTRAND  is  rebuffed  by  one  and 
the  other  in  dead  silence?) 

BERTRAND. 

Sold  again ! 

MACAIRE. 

Charles,  to  my  arms  !     (Business?) 

ERNESTINE. 

Well,  but  now  that  he  has  a  father  of 
some  kind,  cannot  the  marriage  go  on  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Angel,  this  very  night :   I  burn  to  take 
my  grandchild  on  my  knees. 

GORIOT. 
Be  you  that  young  man's  veyther  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Ay,  and  what  a  father ! 


54  MACAIRE. 

GORIOT. 

Then  all  I've  got  to  say  is,  I  shan't  and 
I  wun't. 

MACAIRE. 

Ah,  friends,  friends,  what  a  satisfaction 
it  is,  what  a  sight  is  virtue !  I  came 
among  you  in  this  poor  attire  to  test  you ; 
how  nobly  have  you  born  the  test !  But 
my  disguise  begins  to  irk  me :  who  will 
lend  me  a  good  suit  ?  (Business.) 


SCENE  III. 
To  these,  the  MARQUIS,  L.  C. 

MARQUIS. 

Is  this  the  house  of  John  Paul  Dumont, 
once  of  Lyons  ? 

DUMONT. 

It  is,  sir,  and  I  am  he,  at  your  disposal. 

MARQUIS. 

I  am  the  Marquis  Villers-Cotterets  de  la 
Cherte"  de  Medoc.     (Sensation.) 


MACAIRE.  55 

MAC  A I  RE. 

Marquis,  delighted,  I  am  sure. 

MARQUIS. 

(To  DUMONT.)  I  come,  as  you  perceive, 
*  unfollowed ;  my  errand,  therefore,  is  dis- 
creet. I  come  (producing  notes  from  breast 
pocket}  equipped  with  thirty  thousand 
francs  ;  my  errand,  therefore,  must  be  gen- 
erous. Can  you  not  guess  ? 

DUMONT. 
Not  I,  my  lord. 

MARQUIS. 

(Repeating}     "  Preserve  this  letter,"  etc. 

MACAIRE. 

Bitten. 

BERTRAND. 

Sold  again  (aside).     (A  pause.} 

ALINE. 

Well,  I  never  did  ! 


56  MACAIRE. 

DUMONT. 

Two  fathers ! 

MARQUIS. 

Two  ?     Impossible. 

DUMONT. 

Not  at  all.     This  is  the  other. 

MARQUIS. 

This  man  ? 

MACAIRE. 

This  is  the  man,  my  lord  ;  here  stands  the 
father  :  Charles  to  my  arms  !  (CHARLES 
backs.) 

DUMONT. 

He  knew  the  letter. 

MARQUIS. 
Well,  but  so  did  I. 

CURATE. 

The  judgment  of  Solomon. 

GORIOT. 
What  did  I  tell  'ee  ?  he  can't  marry. 


MACAIRE.  57 

ERNESTINE. 

Couldn't  they  both  consent  ? 

MARQUIS. 

But  he's  my  living  image. 

MACAIRE. 

Mine,  Marquis,  mine. 

MARQUIS. 
My  figure,  I  think  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Ah,  Charles,  Charles ! 

CURATE. 

We  used  to  think  his  physiognomy  re- 
sembled Dumont's. 

DUMONT. 

Come  and  look  at  him,  he's  really  like 
Goriot. 

ERNESTINE. 

O  papa,  I  hope  he's  not  my  brother. 


58  MACAIRE. 

GORIOT. 

What  be  talking  of  ?     I  tell  'ee,  he's  like 
our  Curate. 

CHARLES. 

Gentlemen,  my  head  aches. 

MARQUIS. 

I    have    it :    the   involuntary   voice   of 
nature.     Look  at  me,  my  son. 

MACAIRE. 

Nay,  Charles,  but  look  at  me. 

CHARLES. 

Gentlemen,    I   am   unconscious   of   the 
smallest  natural  inclination  for  either. 

MARQUIS. 

Another  thought :  what  was  his  mother's 
name  ? 

MACAIRE. 

What  was  the  name  of  his  mother  by 
you? 

MARQUIS. 

Sir,  you  are  silenced. 


MACAIRE.  59 

MACAIRE. 

Silenced  by  honour.  I  had  rather  lose  ray 
boy  than  compromise  his  sainted  mother. 

MARQUIS. 

*     A  thought :  twins  might  explain  it :  had 
you  not  two  foundlings  ? 

DUMONT. 

Nay,  sir,  one  only ;  and  judging  by  the 
miseries  of  this  evening,  I  should  say, 
thank  God! 

MACAIRE. 

My  friends,  leave  me  alone  with  the 
Marquis.  It  is  only  a  father  that  can 
understand  a  father's  heart.  Bertrand,  fol- 
low the  members  of  my  family.  (They 
troop  out,  L.  U.  E.  and  R.  U.  E.,  the  FID- 
DLERS playing.  AIR  :  "  O  dear,  what  can 
the  matter  be  ?  ") 


60  MACAIRE. 

SCENE  IV. 

MACAIRE,  MARQUIS. 
MARQUIS. 

Well,  sir? 

MACAIRE. 

My   lord,    I   feel   for   you.      (Business. 
They  sit,  R.) 

MARQUIS. 
And  now,  sir  ? 

MACAIRE. 

The  bond  that  joins  us  is  remarkable 
and  touching. 

MARQUIS. 

Well,  sir? 

MACAIRE. 

(Touching  him  on  the  breast?)     You  have 
there  thirty  thousand  francs. 

MARQUIS. 

Well,  sir? 


MACAIRE.  61 

MACAIRE. 

I  was  but  thinking  of  the  inequalities  of 
life,  my  lord  :  that  I  who,  for  all  you  know, 
may  be  the  father  of  your  son,  should  have 
nothing ;  and  that  you  who,  for  all  I  know, 
may  be  the  father  of  mine,  should  be  liter- 
ally bulging  with  bank  notes.  .  .  .  Where 
do  you  keep  them  at  night  ? 

MARQUIS. 

Under  my  pillow.  I  think  it  rather  in- 
genious. 

MACAIRE. 

Admirably  so  !     I  applaud  the  device. 

MARQUIS. 
Well,  sir? 

MACAIRE. 

Do  you  snuff,  my  lord  ? 

MARQUIS. 

No,  sir,  I  do  not. 

MACAIRE. 

My  lord,  I  am  a  poor  man. 


62  MACAIRE. 

MARQUIS. 

Well,  sir,  and  what  of  that  ? 

MACAIRE. 

The  affections,  my  lord,  are  priceless. 
Money  will  not  buy  them ;  or  at  least,  it 
takes  a  great  deal. 

MARQUIS. 
Sir,  your  sentiments  do  you  honour. 

MACAIRE. 

My  lord,  you  are  rich. 

MARQUIS. 

Well,  sir? 

MACAIRE. 

Now  follow  me,  I  beseech  you.  Here 
am  I,  my  lord ;  and  there,  if  I  may  so 
express  myself,  are  you.  Each  has  the 
father's  heart,  and  there  we  are  equal; 
each  claims  yon  interesting  lad,  and  there 
again  we  are  on  a  par.  But,  my  lord  — 
and  here  we  come  to  the  inequality,  and 
what  I  consider  the  unfairness  of  the  thing 


MACAIRE.  63 

—  you  have  thirty  thousand  francs,  and  I, 
my  lord,  have  not  a  rap.  You  mark  me  ? 
not  a  rap,  my  lord !  My  lord,  put  yourself 
in  my  position  :  consider  what  must  be  my 
feelings,  my  desires  ;  and  —  hey  ? 

MARQUIS. 
I  fail  to  grasp  .  .  . 

MACAIRE. 

( With  irritation?)  My  dear  man,  there 
is  the  door  of  the  house  ;  here  am  I ;  there 
(touching  MARQUIS  on  the  breast)  are  thirty 
thousand  francs.  Well,  now  ? 

MARQUIS. 

I  give  you  my  word  and  honour,  sir,  I 
gather  nothing ;  my  mind  is  quite  unused 
to  such  prolonged  exertion.  If  the  boy  be 
yours,  he  is  not  mine ;  if  he  be  mine,  he  is 
not  yours ;  and  if  he  is  neither  of  ours,  or 
both  of  ours  ...  in  short,  my  mind  .  .  . 

MACAIRE. 

My  lord,  will  you  lay  those  thirty  thou- 
sand francs  upon  the  table  ? 


64  MACAIRE. 

MARQUIS. 

I  fail  to  grasp  .  .  .  but  if  it  will  in  any 
way  oblige  you  .  .  .  (Does  so.) 

MACAIRE. 

Now,  my  lord,  follow  me :  I  take  them 
up  ;  you  see  ?  I  put  them  in  my  pocket ; 
you  follow  me  ?  This  is  my  hat ;  here  is 
my  stick;  and  here  is  my  —  my  friend's 
bundle. 

MARQUIS. 

But  that  is  my  cloak. 

MACAIRE. 

Precisely.  Now,  my  lord,  one  more 
effort  of  your  lordship's  mind.  If  I  were 
to  go  out  of  that  door,  with  the  full  inten- 
tion—  follow  me  close  —  the  full  intention 
of  never  being  heard  of  more,  what  would 
you  do  ? 

MARQUIS. 

I !  —  send  for  the  police. 

MACAIRE. 

Take  your  money !     (Dashing  down  the 


MACAIRE.  65 

notes.)     Man,  if  I  met  you  in  a  lane !    (He 
drops  his  head  upon  the  table) 

MARQUIS. 

The  poor  soul  is  insane.     The  other  man 
whom  I  suppose  to  be  his  keeper,  is  very 
1  much  to  blame. 

MACAIRE. 

(Raising  his  head)  I  have  a  light.  (To 
MARQUIS.)  With  invincible  owlishness, 
my  lord,  I  cannot  struggle.  I  pass  you 
by ;  I  leave  you  gaping  by  the  wayside ; 
I  blush  to  have  a  share  in  the  progeny 
of  such  an  owl.  Off,  off,  and  send  the 
tapster ! 

MARQUIS. 

Poor  fellow ! 


SCENE  V. 

MACAIRE,    to    whom    BERTRAND.      Afterwards 
DUMONT. 

BERTRAND. 
Well  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Bitten. 

F 


66  MACAIRE., 

BERTRAND. 

Sold  again. 

MACAIRE. 

Had  he  the  wit  of  a  lucifer  match  !  But 
what  can  gods  or  men  against  stupidity? 
Still  I  have  a  trick.  Where  is  that  damned 
old  man  ? 

DUMONT. 

(Entering?)     I  hear  you  want  me. 

MACAIRE. 

Ah,  my  good  old  Dumont,  this  is  very 
sad. 

DUMONT. 

Dear  me,  what  is  wrong  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Dumont,  you  had  a  dowry  for  my  son  ? 

DUMONT. 

I  had ;  I  have  :  ten  thousand  francs. 

MACAIRE. 

It's  a  poor  thing,  but  it  must  do.     Du- 


MACAIRE.  67 

mont,  I  bury  my  old  hopes,  my  old  paternal 
tenderness. 

DUMONT. 

What,  is  he  not  your  son  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Pardon  me,  my  friend.  The  Marquis 
claims  my  boy.  I  will  not  seek  to  deny 
that  he  attempted  to  corrupt  me,  or  that 
I  spurned  his  gold.  It  was  thirty  thousand. 

DUMONT. 
Noble  soul ! 

MACAIRE. 

One  has  a  heart  .  .  .  He  spoke,  Du- 
mont,  that  proud  noble  spoke,  of  the  ad- 
vantages to  our  beloved  Charles ;  and  in 
my  father's  heart  a  voice  arose,  louder  than 
thunder.  Dumont,  was  I  unselfish  ?  The 
voice  said  no ;  the  voice,  Dumont,  up  and 
told  me  to  begone. 

DUMONT. 
To  begone  ?    To  go  ? 


68  MACAIRE. 

MACAIRE. 

To  begone,  Dumont,  and  to  go.  Both, 
Dumont.  To  leave  my  son  to  marry,  and 
be  rich  and  happy  as  the  son  of  another ;  to 
creep  forth  myself,  old,  penniless,  broken- 
hearted, exposed  to  the  inclemencies  of 
heaven  and  the  rebuffs  of  the  police. 

DUMONT. 

This  was  what  I  had  looked  for  at  your 
hands.  Noble,  noble  man  ! 

MACAIRE. 

One  has  a  heart  .  .  .  And  yet,  Dumont, 
it  can  hardly  have  escaped  your  pene- 
tration that  if  I  were  to  shift  from  this 
hostelry  without  a  farthing,  and  leave  my 
offspring  to  literally  wallow  among  mil- 
lions, I  should  play  the  part  of  little  better 
than  an  ass. 

DUMONT. 

But  I  had  thought  ...  I  had  fan- 
cied . 


MACAIRE.  69 

MACAIRE. 

No,  Dumont,  you  had  not ;  do  not  seek 
to  impose  upon  my  simplicity.  What  you 
did  think  was  this,  Dumont :  for  the  sake 
of  this  noble  father,  for  the  sake  of  this 
^son  whom  he  denies  for  his  own  interest  — 
I  mean,  for  his  interest  —  no,  I  mean,  for 
his  own  —  well,  anyway,  in  order  to  keep 
up  the  general  atmosphere  of  sacrifice  and 
nobility,  I  must  hand  over  this  dowry  to 
the  Baron  Henri-Frederic  de  Latour  de 
Main  de  la  Tonnerre  de  Brest. 


DUMONT. 


Noble,  O  noble ! 


BERTRAND. 


Beautiful,  O  beautiful ! . 


Together:  each 
shaking  him 
by  a  hand. 


DUMONT. 


Now  Charles  is  rich  he  needs  it  not. 
For  whom  could  it  more  fittingly  be  set 
aside  than  for  his  noble  father?  I  will 
give  it  you  at  once. 


70  MACAIRE. 

BERTRAND. 

At  once,  at  once  ! 

MACAIRE. 

(A side  to  BERTRAND.)  Hang  on.  (Aloud.} 
Charles,  Charles,  my  lost  boy  !  (He  falls 
weeping  at  L.  table.  DUMONT  enters  the 
office,  and  brings  down  cash-box  to  table  R. 
He  feels  in  all  his  pockets:  BERTRAND, 
from  behind  him,  making  signs  to  MACAIRE, 
which  the  latter  does  not  see.) 

DUMONT. 

That's  strange.  I  can't  find  the  key. 
It's  a  patent  key. 

BERTRAND. 

(Behind  DUMONT,  making  signs  to 
MACAIRE.)  The  key,  he  can't  find  the 
key. 

MACAIRE. 

O  yes,  I  remember.  I  heard  it  drop. 
(Drops  key.)  And  here  it  is  before  my 
eyes. 


MACAIRE.  71 

DUMONT. 

That  ?    That's  yours.     I  saw  it  drop. 

MACAIRE. 

I  give  you  my  word  and  honour  I  heard 
it  fall  five  minutes  back. 

DUMONT. 
But  I  saw  it. 

MACAIRE. 

Impossible.     It  must  be  yours. 

DUMONT. 

It  is  like  mine,  indeed.  How  came  it  in 
your  pocket  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Bitten.     (Aside.) 

BERTRAND. 

Sold  again  (aside).  .  .  .  You  forget, 
Baron,  it's  the  key  of  my  valise ;  I  gave 
it  to  you  to  keep  in  consequence  of  the 
hole  in  my  pocket. 


72  MACAIRE. 

MACAIRE. 

True,  true ;  and  that  explains. 

DUMONT. 

O,  that  explains.  Now,  all  we  have  to 
do  is  to  find  mine.  It's  a  patent  key.  You 
heard  it  drop  ? 

MACAIRE. 
Distinctly. 

BERTRAND. 

So  did  I ;  distinctly. 

DUMONT. 

Here,  Aline,  Babette,  Goriot,  Curate, 
Charles,  everybody,  come  here  and  look 
for  my  key. 

SCENE  VI. 

To  these,  with  candles,  all  the  former  characters, 
except  FIDDLERS,  PEASANTS,  and  NOTARY.  They 
hunt  for  the  key. 

DUMONT. 

It's  bound  to  be  here.  We  all  heard  it 
drop. 


MACAIRE.  73 

MARQUIS. 

( With  BERTRAND'S  bundle.}     Is  this  it  ? 

ALL. 
( With  fury.}     No. 

BERTRAND. 

Hands   off,  that's   my  luggage.     (Hunt 
resumed?) 

DUMONT. 

I  heard  it  drop,  as  plain  as  ever  I  heard 
anything. 

MARQUIS. 

By  the  way  (all  start  up}  what  are  we 
looking  for  ? 

ALL. 

(With  fury.}     O!! 

DUMONT. 

Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  find  my 
key  ?     (Hunt  resumed.} 

CURATE. 
What  description  of  a  key 


74  MACAIRE. 

DUMONT. 

A  patent,  patent,  patent,  patent  key ! 

MACAIRE. 
I  have  it.     Here  it  is. 

ALL. 

(With  relief.}     Ah!! 

DUMONT. 

That?    What  do    you  mean?     That's 
yours. 

MACAIRE. 

Pardon  me. 

DUMONT. 

It  is. 

MACAIRE. 

It  isn't. 

DUMONT. 

I  tell  you,  it  is :  look  at  that  twisted 
handle. 


MACAIRE.  75 

MACAIRE. 

It  can't  be  mine,  and  so  it  must  be 
yours. 

DUMONT. 

It  is  NOT.  Feel  in  your  pockets.  (To 
the  others)  Will  you  have  the  kindness 
to  find  my  patent  key  ? 

ALL. 

Oh  ! !     (Hunt  resumed) 

MACAIRE. 

Ah,  well,  you're  right.  (He  slips  key 
into  DUMONT'S/^^/.)  An  idea:  suppose 
you  felt  in  your  pocket  ? 

ALL. 
(Rising.)     Yes  !     Suppose  you  did  ! 

DUMONT. 

I  will  not  feel  in  my  pockets.  How 
could  it  be  there  ?  It's  a  patent  key. 
This  is  more  than  any  man  can  bear. 
First,  Charles  is  one  man's  son,  and  then 


76  MACAIRE. 

he's  another's,  and  then  he's  nobody's, 
and  be  damned  to  him  !  And  then  there's 
my  key  lost ;  and  then  there's  your  key ! 
What  is  your  key  ?  Where  is  your  key  ? 
Where  isn't  it  ?  And  why  is  it  like  mine, 
only  mine's  a  patent  ?  The  long  and  short 
of  it  is  this :  that  I'm  going  to  bed,  and 
that  you're  all  going  to  bed,  and  that  I  re- 
fuse to  hear  another  word  upon  that  sub- 
ject or  upon  any  subject.  There ! 

MACAIRE. 

Bitten. 

Aside. 

BERTRAND. 

Sold  again. 

(ALINE  and  MAIDS  extinguish  hanging 
lamps  over  tables,  R.  and  L.  Stage  lighted 
only  by  guests'  candles?) 

CHARLES. 

But,  sir,  I  cannot  decently  retire  to 
rest  until  I  embrace  my  honoured  parent. 
Which  is  it  to  be  ? 


MACAIRE.  77 

MACAIRE. 

Charles,  to  my 

DUMONT. 

Embrace  neither  of  them ;  embrace  no- 
^body  ;  there  has  been  too  much  of  this 
sickening  folly.  To  bed ! ! !  (Exit  vio- 
lently R.  U.  E.  All  the  characters  troop 
slowly  up  stairs,  talking  in  dumb  show. 
BERTRAND  and  MACAIRE  remain  in  front, 
C.,  watching  them  go.} 

BERTRAND. 

Sold  again,  captain  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Ay,  they  will  have  it. 

BERTRAND. 

It  ?     What  ? 

MACAIRE. 

The  worst,  Bertrand.  What  is  man? 
—  a  beast  of  prey.  An  hour  ago,  and  I'd 
have  taken  a  crust,  and  gone  in  peace. 


78  MACAIRE. 

But  no :  they  would  trick  and  juggle, 
curse  them  ;  they  would  wiggle  and  cheat ! 
Well,  I  accept  the  challenge :  war  to  the 
knife. 

BERTRAND. 

Murder  ? 

MACAIRE. 

What  is  murder?  A  legal  term  for  a 
man  dying.  Call  it  Fate,  and  that's  phi- 
losophy ;  call  me  Providence,  and  you  talk 
religion.  Die  ?  Why,  that  is  what  man 
is  made  for ;  we  are  full  of  mortal  parts  ; 
we  are  all  as  good  as  dead  already,  we 
hang  so  close  upon  the  brink :  touch  but 
a  button,  and  the  strongest  falls  in  disso- 
lution. Now,  see  how  easy :  I  take  you 
(grappling  him). 

BERTRAND. 

Macaire  —  O  no ! 

MACAIRE. 

Fool !  would  I  harm  a  fly ;  when  I  had 
nothing  to  gain  ?  As  the  butcher  with 


MACAIRE.  79 

the  sheep,  I  kill  to  live ;  and  where  is  the 
difference  between  man  and  mutton  ?  pride 
and  a  tailor's  bill  ?  Murder  ?  I  know  who 
made  that  name  —  a  man  crouching  from 
the  knife  !  Selfishness  made  it  —  the  ag- 
gregated egotism  called  society ;  but  I 
meet  that  with  a  selfishness  as  great. 
Has  he  money?  Have  I  none  —  great 
powers,  none?  Well,  then,  I  fatten  and 
manure  my  life  with  his. 

BERTRAND. 

You  frighten  me.     Who  is  it  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Mark  well.  (The  MARQUIS  opens  the 
door  of  Number  Thirteen,  and  the  rest,  clus- 
tering round,  bid  him  good-night.  As  they 
begin  to  disperse  along  the  gallery  he  enters, 
and  shuts  the  door.)  Out,  out,  brief  candle  ! 
That  man  is  doomed. 

DROP. 


THE   THIRD   ACT. 


THE  THIRD   ACT. 

SCENE   I. 

MACAIRE,  BERTRAND. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  the  stage  is  dark  and  empty. 
Enter  MACAIRE  L.  U.  £.,  with  lantern.  He 
looks  about. 

MACAIRE. 

(Calling  off.)     S'st ! 

BERTRAND. 

(Entering  L.  U.  E.)     It's  creeping  dark. 

MACAIRE. 

Blinding  dark ;  and  a  good  job. 

BERTRAND. 

Macaire,  I'm  cold ;  my  very  hair's  cold. 
83 


84  MACAIRE. 

MACAIRE. 

Work,  work  will  warm  you :  to  your 
keys. 

BERTRAND. 

No,  Macaire,  it's  a  horror.  You'll  not 
kill  him ;  let's  have  no  bloodshed. 

MACAIRE. 

None :  it  spoils  your  clothes.  Now, 
see :  you  have  keys,  and  you  have  experi- 
ence :  up  that  stair,  and  pick  me  the  lock 
of  that  man's  door.  Pick  me  the  lock  of 
that  man's  door. 

BERTRAND. 

May  I  take  the  light  ? 

MACAIRE. 

You  may  not.  Go.  (BERTRAND  mounts 
the  stairs,  and  is  seen  picking  the  lock  of 
Number  Thirteen?)  The  earth  spins  east- 
ward, and  the  day  is  at  the  door.  Yet 
half-an-hour  of  covert,  and  the  sun  will  be 
afoot,  the  discoverer,  the  great  policeman. 
Yet  half-an-hour  of  night,  the  good,  hiding, 


MACAIRE.  85 

practicable  night ;  and  lo !  at  a  touch  the 
gas-jet  of  the  universe  turned  on  ;  and  up 
with  the  sun  gets  the  providence  of  honest 
people,  puts  off  his  night-cap,  throws  up 
his  window,  stares  out  of  house  —  and  the 
rogue  must  skulk  again  till  dusk.  Yet, 
half-an-hour  and,  Macaire,  you  shall  be 
safe  and  rich  ?  If  yon  fool  —  my  fool  — 
would  but  miscarry,  if  the  dolt  within 
would  hear  and  leap  upon  him,  I  could 
intervene,  kill  both,  by  heaven  —  both  !  — 
cry  murder  with  the  best,  and  at  one  stroke 
reap  honour  and  gold.  For,  Bertrand 
dead 

BERTRAND. 

(From  above.)     S'st,  Macaire ! 

MACAIRE. 

Is  it  done,  dear  boy  ?  Come  down.  (BER- 
TRAND descends.)  Sit  down  beside  this 
light :  this  is  your  ring  of  safety,  budge  not 
beyond — the  night  is  crowded  with  hobgob- 
lins. See  ghosts  and  tremble  like  a  jelly  if 
you  must ;  but  remember  men  are  my  con- 


86  MACAIRE. 

cern  ;  and  at  the  creak  of  a  man's  foot,  hist ! 
(Sharpening  his  knife  itpon  his  sleeve?) 
What  is  a  knife  ?  A  plain  man's  sword. 

BERTRAND. 

Not  the  knife,  Macaire ;  O,  not  the 
knife ! 

MACAIRE. 

My  name  is  Self-Defence.  (He  goes  up 
stairs  and  enters  Number  Thirteen?) 

BERTRAND. 

He's  in.  I  hear  a  board  creak.  What  a 
night,  what  a  night !  Will  he  hear  him  !  O 
Lord,  my  poor  Macaire  !  I  hear  nothing, 
nothing.  The  night's  as  empty  as  a  dream : 
he  must  hear  him :  he  cannot  help  but  hear 
him ;  and  then  —  O  Macaire,  Macaire,  come 
back  to  me.  It's  death,  and  it's  death,  and 
it's  death.  Red,  red  :  a  corpse.  Macaire 
to  kill,  Macaire  to  die  ?  I'd  rather  starve, 
I'd  rather  perish,  than  either :  I'm  not  fit, 
I'm  not  fit,  for  either  !  Why,  how's  this  ? 
I  want  to  cry.  (A  stroke,  and  a  groan, 


MACAIRE.  87 

from  above.)  God  Almighty,  one  of  them's 
gone  !  (He  falls,  with  his  head  on  table,  R. 
MACAIRE  appears  at  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
descends,  comes  airily  forward,  and  touches 
him  on  the  shoulder.  BERTRAND,  with  a 
cry,  turns  and  falls  upon  his  neck.)  O,  O, 
and  I  thought  I  had  lost  him  !  (Day  break- 
ing.) 

MACAIRE. 

The  contrary,  dear  boy.  (He  proditces 
notes.) 

BERTRAND. 

What  was  it  like  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Like  ?  Nothing.  A  little  blood,  a  dead 
man. 

BERTRAND. 

Blood !  .  .  .  Dead  !  (He  falls  at  table  sob- 
bing. MACAIRE  divides  the  notes  into  two 
parts ;  on  the  smaller  he  wipes  the  bloody 
knife,  and  folding  the  stains  inward,  thrusts 
the  notes  into 


88  MACAIRE. 


MACAIRE. 

What  is  life  without  the  pleasure  of  the 
table ! 

BERTRAND. 

(Taking  and  pocketing  notes.)     Macaire, 
I  can't  get  over  it. 


MACAIRE. 

My  mark  is  the  frontier,  and  at  top 
speed.  Don't  hang  your  jaw  at  me.  Up, 
up,  at  the  double ;  pick  me  that  cash-box ; 
and  let's  get  the  damned  house  fairly 
cleared. . 

BERTRAND. 

I  can't.     Did  he  bleed  much  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Bleed  ?  Must  I  bleed  you  ?  To  work, 
or  I'm  dangerous. 

BERTRAND. 

It's  all  right,  Macaire ;  I'm  going. 


MACAIRE.  89 

MACAIRE. 

Better  so :  an  old  friend  is  nearly  sacred. 
(Full  daylight :  lights  up.  MACAIRE  blows 
out  lantern,} 

BERTRAND. 

Where's  the  key  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Key  ?     I  tell  you  to  pick  it. 

BERTRAND. 

(With  the  box}  But  it's  a  patent  lock. 
Where  is  the  key  ?  You  had  it. 

MACAIRE. 
Will  you  pick  that  lock  ? 

BERTRAND. 

I  can't :  it's  a  patent.  Where's  the  key? 

MACAIRE. 

If  you  will  have  it,  I  put  it  back  in  that 
old  ass's  pocket. 


90  MACAIRE. 

BERTRAND. 

Bitten,  I  think.  (MACAIRE  dancing  mad.) 


SCENE  II. 
To  these,  DUMONT. 

DUMONT. 

Ah,  friends,  up  so  early  ?     Catching  the 
worm,  catching  the  worm  ? 

MACAIRE. 
Good  morning,  good  morning! 

BERTRAND. 

Early  birds,  early  birds.     (Both  sitting 
on  the  table  and  dissembling  box.) 

DUMONT. 

By  the  way,  very  remarkable  thing:   I 
found  that  key. 

MACAIRE. 

No? 

BERTRAND. 

O! 


MACAIRE.  91 

DUMONT. 

Perhaps  a  still  more  remarkable  thing : 
it  was  my  key  that  had  the  twisted  handle. 

MACAIRE. 
I  told  you  so. 

DUMONT. 

Now  what  we  have  to  do  is  to  get  the 
cash-box.  Hallo !  what's  that  you're  sit- 
ting on  ? 

BERTRAND. 

Nothing. 

MACAIRE. 

The  table !     I  beg  your  pardon. 

DUMONT. 
Why,  it's  my  cash-box  ! 

MACAIRE. 

Why,  so  it  is  ! 

DUMONT. 

It's  very  singular. 


ps  MACAIRE. 

MACAIRE. 

Diabolishly  singular. 

BERTRAND. 

Early  worms,  early  worms. 

DUMONT. 

(Blowing  in  key.}  Well,  I  suppose  you 
are  still  willing  to  begone  ? 

MACAIRE. 

More  than  willing,  my  dear  soul :  pressed, 
I  may  say,  for  time ;  for  though  it  had 
quite  escaped  my  memory,  I  have  an  ap- 
pointment in  Turin  with  a  lady  of  title. 

DUMONT. 

(At  box.}  It's  very  odd.  (Blows  in  key} 
It's  a  singular  thing  (blowing),  key  won't 
turn.  It's  a  patent  key.  Some  one  must 
have  tampered  with  the  lock  (blowing). 
It's  strangely  singular,  it's  singularly  sin- 
gular !  I've  shown  this  key  to  commercial 
gentlemen  all  the  way  from  Paris  :  they 
never  saw  a  better  key !  (more  business]. 


MACAIRE.  93 

Well  (giving  it  up,  and  looking  reproach- 
fully on  key),  that's  pretty  singular. 

MACAIRE. 

Let  me  try.  (He  tries,  and  flings  down 
the  key  with  a  curse?)  Bitten. 

BERTRAND. 

Sold  again. 

DUMONT. 

(Picking  up  key.}    It's  a  patent  key. 

MACAIRE. 

(To  BERTRAND.)  The  game's  up :  we 
must  save  the  swag.  (To  DUMONT.)  Sir, 
since  your  key,  on  which  I  invoke  the 
blight  of  Egypt,  has  once  more  defaulted, 
my  feelings  are  unequal  to  a  repetition  of 
yesterday's  distress,  and  I  shall  simply 
pad  the  hoof.  From  Turin  you  shall  re- 
ceive the  address  of  my  banker,  and  may 
prosperity  attend  your  ventures.  (To 
BERTRAND.)  Now,  boy !  (To  DUMONT.) 
Embrace  my  fatherless  child :  farewell ! 


94  MACAIRE. 

(MACAIRE  and  BERTRAND  turn  to  go  off, 
and  are  met  in  the  door  by  the  GENDARMES.) 


SCENE   III. 
To  these,  the  BRIGADIER  and  GENDARMES. 

BRIGADIER. 

Let  no  man  leave  the  house. 

MACAIRE.        1 

Bitten. 

Aside. 

BERTRAND. 

Sold  again. . 

DUMONT. 

Welcome,  old  friend  ! 

BRIGADIER. 

It  is  not  the  friend  that  comes  ;  it  is  the 
Brigadier.  Summon  your  guests  :  I  must 
investigate  their  passports.  I  am  in  pur- 
suit of  a  notorious  malefactor  Robert 

Macaire. 


MACAIRE.  95 

DUMONT. 

But  I  was  led  to  believe  that  both 
Macaire  and  his  accomplice  had  been  ar- 
rested and  condemned. 

BRIGADIER. 

L 

They  were,  but  they  have  once  more 
escaped  for  the  moment,  and  justice  is 
indefatigable.  (He  sits  at  table  R.)  Du- 
mont,  a  bottle  of  white  wine. 

MACAIRE. 

(To  DUMONT.)  My  excellent  friend,  I 
will  discharge  your  commission  and  return 
with  all  speed.  (Going?) 

BRIGADIER. 

Halt! 

MACAIRE. 

(Returning:  as  if  he  saw  BRIGADIER  for 
the  first  time?}  Ha?  a  member  of  the 
force  ?  Charmed,  I'm  sure.  But  you  mis- 
conceive me:  I  return  at  once,  and  my 
friend  remains  behind  to  answer  for  me. 


96  MACAIRE. 

BRIGADIER. 

Justice  is  insensible  to  friendship.  I 
shall  deal  with  you  in  due  time.  Dumont, 
that  bottle. 

MACAIRE. 

Sir,  my  friend  and  I,  who  are  students 
of  character,  would  grasp  the  opportunity 
to  share  and  —  may  one  add  ?  —  to  pay 
the  bottle.  Dumont,  three ! 

BERTRAND. 

For  God's  sake !  (Enter  ALINE  and 
MAIDS.) 

MACAIRE. 

My  friend  is  an  author ;  so,  in  a  humbler 
way,  am  I.  Your  knowledge  of  the  crimi- 
nal classes  naturally  tempts  one  to  pursue 
so  interesting  an  acquaintance. 

BRIGADIER. 

Justice  is  impartial.  Gentlemen,  your 
health. 

MACAIRE. 

Will  not  these  brave  fellows  join  us? 


MACAIRE.  97 

BRIGADIER. 

They  are  on  duty ;  but  what  matters  ? 

MACAIRE. 

My  dear  sir,  what  is  duty  ?  duty  is  my 
eye. 

v 

BRIGADIER. 

(Solemnly.)  And  Betty  Martin.  (GEN- 
DARMES sit  at  table.) 

MACAIRE. 
(To  BERTRAND.)     Dear  friend,  sit  down. 

BERTRAND. 

(Sitting  down.)     O  Lord  ! 

BRIGADIER. 

(To  MACAIRE.)  You  seem  to  be  a  gen- 
tleman of  considerable  intelligence. 

MACAIRE. 

I  fear,  sir,  you  flatter.  One  has  lived, 
one  has  loved,  and  one  remembers  :  that  is 
all.  One's  Lives  of  Celebrated  Criminals 


98  MACAIRE. 

have  met  with  a  certain  success,  and  one 
is  ever  in  quest  of  fresh  material. 


DUMONT. 

By  the  way,  a  singular  thing  about  my 
patent  key. 

BRIGADIER. 

This  gentleman  is  speaking. 

MACAIRE. 

Excellent  Dumont !  he  means  no  harm. 
This  Macaire  is  not  personally  known  to 
you? 

BRIGADIER. 

Are  you  connected  with  justice  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Ah,  sir,  justice  is  a  point  above  a  poor 
author. 

BRIGADIER. 

( With  glass.}     Justice  is  the  very  devil. 


MACAIRE.  99 

MACAIRE. 

My  dear  sir,  my  friend  and  I,  I  regret  to 
say,  have  an  appointment  in  Lyons,  or  I 
could  spend  my  life  in  this  society.  Charge 
your  glasses  :  one  hour  to  madness  and 
to  joy !  What  is  to-morrow  ?  the  enemy 
of  to-day  ?  Wine  ?  the  bath  of  life.  One 
moment :  I  find  I  have  forgotten  my  watch. 
(He  makes  for  the  door.) 

BRIGADIER. 

Halt! 

MACAIRE. 

Sir,  what  is  this  jest  ? 

BRIGADIER. 

Sentry  at  the  door.     Your  passports. 

MACAIRE. 

My  good  man,  with  all  the  pleasure  in 
life.  (Gives  papers.  The  BRIGADIER  puts 
on  spectacles,  and  examines  them.) 

BERTRAND. 

(Rising,  and  passing  round  to  MACAIRE'S 


ioo  MACAIRE. 

other  side.}     It's  life  and  death  :  they  must 
soon  find  it. 

MACAIRE. 

(Aside?)     Don't    I    know?     My   heart's 
like  fire  in  my  body. 

BRIGADIER. 

Your  name  is  ? 

MACAIRE. 

It  is  ;  one's  name  is  not  unknown. 

BRIGADIER. 

Justice  exacts  your  name. 

MACAIRE. 

Henri-Fr6deric  de  Latour  de  Main  de  la 
Tonnerre  de  Brest. 

BRIGADIER. 

Your  profession  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Gentleman. 


MACAIRE.  101 

BRIGADIER. 

No,  but  what  is  your  trade  ? 

MACAIRE. 

I  am  an  analytical  chymist. 

BRIGADIER. 

Justice  is  inscrutable.  Your  papers  are 
in  order.  (To  BERTRAND.)  Now,  sir,  and 
yours  ? 

BERTRAND. 

I  feel  kind  of  ill. 

MACAIRE. 

Bertrand,  this  gentleman  addresses  you. 
He  is  not  one  of  us :  in  other  scenes,  in 
the  gay  and  giddy  world  of  fashion,  one  is 
his  superior.  But  to-day  he  represents  the 
majesty  of  law ;  and  as  a  citizen  it  is  one's 
pride  to  do  him  honour. 

BRIGADIER. 

Those  are  my  sentiments. 


102  MACAIRE. 

BERTRAND. 

I  beg  your  pardon,  I (Gives  papers.} 

BRIGADIER. 

Your  name  ? 

BERTRAND. 

Napoleon. 

BRIGADIER. 

What  ?  In  your  passport  it  is  written 
Bertrand. 

BERTRAND. 

It's  this  way :  I  was  born  Bertrand,  and 
then  I  took  the  name  of  Napoleon,  and  I 
mostly  always  call  myself  either  Napoleon 
or  Bertrand. 

BRIGADIER. 

The  truth  is  always  best.  Your  pro- 
fession ? 

BERTRAND. 

I  am  an  orphan. 


MACAIRE.  103 

BRIGADIER. 

What  the  devil!      (To  MACAIRE.)      Is 
your  friend  an  idiot  ? 

MACAIRE. 
Pardon  me,  he  is  a  poet. 

BRIGADIER. 

Poetry  is  a  great  hindrance  to  the  ends 
of  justice.     Well,  take  your  papers. 

MACAIRE. 

Then  we  may  go  ? 


SCENE  IV. 

To  these  CHARLES,  who  is  seen  on  the  gallery, 
going  to  the  door  of  Number  Thirteen.  After- 
wards all  the  characters  but  the  NOTARY  and 
the  MARQUIS. 

BRIGADIER. 

One  glass  more.  (BERTRAND  touches 
MACAIRE,  and  points  to  CHARLES,  who  en- 
ters Number  Thirteen.) 


104  MACAIRE. 

MACAIRE. 

No  more,  no  more,  no  more. 

BRIGADIER. 

(Rising  and  taking  MACAIRE  by  the  arm.} 
I  stipulate. 

MACAIRE. 

Engagement  in  Turin ! 

BRIGADIER. 

Turin  ? 

MACAIRE. 

Lyons,  Lyons ! 

BERTRAND. 

For  God's  sake.  .  .  . 

BRIGADIER. 

Well,  good-bye ! 

MACAIRE. 

Good-bye,  good 


MACAIRE.  105 

CHARLES. 

(From  within?)  Murder !  Help !  (Ap- 
pearing?) Help  here !  The  Marquis  is 
murdered. 

BRIGADIER. 

Stand  to  the  door.  A  man  up  there. 
(A  GENDARME  hurries  up  staircase  into 
Number  Thirteen,  CHARLES  following  him. 
Enter  on  both  sides  of  gallery  the  remaining 
characters  of  the  piece,  except  the  NOTARY 
and  the  MARQUIS.) 

MACAIRE. 
Bitten,  by  God ! 

Aside. 

BERTRAND. 

Lost! 

BRIGADIER. 

(To  DUMONT.)  John  Paul  Dumont,  I 
arrest  you. 

DUMONT. 

Do  your  duty,  officer.  I  can  answer  for 
myself  and  my  own  people. 


io6  MACAIRE. 

BRIGADIER. 

Yes,  but  these  strangers  ? 

DUMONT. 
They  are  strangers  to  me. 

MACAIRE. 

I  am  an  honest  man :  I  stand  upon  my 
rights  :  search  me ;  or  search  this  person, 
of  whom  I  know  too  little.  (Smiting  his 
brow.}  By  heaven,  I  see  it  all.  This  morn- 
ing   (To  BERTRAND.)  How,  sir,  did 

you  dare  to  flaunt  your  booty  in  my  very 
face?  (To  BRIGADIER.)  He  showed  me 
notes  ;  he  was  up  ere  day ;  search  him,  and 
you'll  find.  There  stands  the  murderer. 

BERTRAND. 

O,  Macaire  !  (He  is  seized  and  searched, 
and  the  notes  are  found?) 

BRIGADIER. 

There  is  blood  upon  the  notes.  Hand- 
cuffs. (MACAIRE  edging  toward  the  door.} 


MACAIRE.  107 

BERTRAND. 

Macaire,  you  may  as  well  take  the  bundle. 
(MACAIRE  is  stopped  by  SENTRY,  and  comes 
front,  R.) 

CHARLES. 

*  (Re-appearing)  Stop,  I  know  the  truth. 
(He  comes  down.)  Brigadier,  my  father  is 
not  dead,  he  is  not  even  dangerously 
hurt.  He  has  spoken.  There  is  the 
would-be  assassin. 

MACAIRE. 

Hell !  (He  darts  across  to  the  staircase, 
and  turns  on  the  second  step,  flashing  out 
the  knifed)  Back,  hounds  !  (He  springs  up 
the  stair,  and  confronts  them  from  the 
top.)  Fools,  I  am  Robert  Macaire!  (As 
MACAIRE  turns  to  flee,  he  is  met  by  the  GEN- 
DARME coming  out  of  Number  Thirteen  ;  he 
stands  an  instant  checked,  is  shot  from  the 
stage,  and  falls  headlong  backward  down  the 
stair.  BERTRAND,  with  a  cry,  breaks  from 
the  GENDARMES,  kneels  at  his  side,  and 
raises  his  head.) 


io8  MACAIRE. 

BERTRAND. 

Macaire,  forgive  me.     I  didn't  blab  ;  you 
know  I  didn't  blab. 


MACAIRE. 

Sold  again,  old  boy.  Sold  for  the  last 
time  ;  at  least,  the  last  time  this  side  death. 
Death,  what  is  death  ?  (He  dies.} 


CURTAIN. 


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